


Swords and Needles

by gootarts



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: F/M, Knitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gootarts/pseuds/gootarts
Summary: Battler Ushiromiya learns to knit.





	Swords and Needles

It’s been barely an day since Virgilia showed up, and just like every other fucked-up demon person he’d met thus far, Battler couldn’t get a handle on what the hell her goal was. All she’d done since arriving was sit in the arbor and knit. Even after Beato had speared her insides so much that her guts had started leaking out a day prior, she just sat there, needles steadily  _ click-clacking _ . She’d almost reminded him of those old women on the subway, balls of yarn on their laps as they’d moved those needles back and forth, only showing themselves to be aware of their surroundings when it was their stop.

He could sit down and talk to her every so often, and she would reply with weird advice as she poured him a piping-hot cup of oolong. Hell, she wouldn’t just give  _ him _ advice. He’d caught her talking to one of those almost tearful big-boobed furniture girls the witch commanded, gently patting the top of her head. She wasn’t even supposed to be on Beato’s side, but it kinda reminded him of his mom. So that got a pass, even if it was weird.

No, the problem came when he’d come to the garden to pace and mull over whatever the hell Beato had been doing with regards to EVA-Beatrice, when he’d caught the two, talking like old war buddies over a cup of tea. Even more damning was Beato’s reaction, as she’d evaporated into a swarm of gold when he’d yelled her name.

Virgilia just sighs, needles going back to the same repetitive _click-clack_ , just like a clock, when he slams his hand on the table. 

“I thought you were supposed to be on my side!” She’d given advice to him, and showed him how to counter Beato’s magic! And yet here she was, talking to her like nothing had happened, sending alarm bells careening wildly through his head.

His comments do nothing faze her, her hands still moving to that steady, unseen rhythm. “I am here to offer you advice, but that child...even if I am opposed to her choices, I am still her mentor. I was giving her comfort, not advice.” She gives another sigh, reminiscent of days past, like a grandparent wistfully remembering when their children still kept in touch.

It’s a gesture that passes through his flesh to touch at his heart, just a little. He still harbors that grudge against his old man, even if they now talk to each other like father and son. Despite his crass words, Rudolf was still willing to prostate himself at the feet of somebody who he’s barely talked to in half a decade in order to get his forgiveness. 

A small silver moth lands on the table, transforming itself into a piping-hot cup of tea, a wordless invitation to conversation. Beato’s mug is still on the table, and as he settles himself into what was her seat, feeling the warmth of her body still lingering on the chair. It’s distracting, just like every other square millimeter of that awful witch, trying to turn him off the path of his goal of obtaining some lick of information about her. That one of those quotes Hideyoshi loved-to defeat your enemy, you had to know them, right?

Virgilia eyes him as he adjusts himself in his seat, getting himself comfortable before taking a small sip of tea. 

“So you were like her mom?” 

“You could say that.” Once again, that weird smile he couldn’t make heads or tails of. “Though she’d vehemently deny it.”

Just like a teenager who got embarrassed by an overbearing parent. Virgilia seemed like the type of parent who’d never have the composure to go beyond a slightly stern ‘stop’. He could imagine how it was possible that sort of attitude would lead to an unrestrained, vulgar witch, if given enough power. 

“Then...do you have any advice about her game?” 

Virgilia chuckles gently into her sleeve as he asks, raising whatever it is she’s knitting to her chest as she gestures. “I already gave you Schrodinger’s catbox.There’s not much more I can offer you without knowing her plans. But if you want to stay here and talk, I’d be glad to.”

She gives that sweet-old-lady smile at him as he makes himself comfortable, his gaze eventually wandering to her knitting needles and the thing she’s making. “Interested in knitting?”  

“I’m a grown man, if you didn’t notice. I don’t have time for girly things.” 

There’s an almost lullaby-ish hum from Virgilia in response.“That child isn’t the type to tease you about being feminine, if that’s what you worry about.” She’s confident enough that even though there’s no trace of color to her speech, he almost sees tinges of the crimson of absolute, immutable truth. It’s a weird proclamation, if true. Beato had missed no opportunity to lower him, to make him grovel at her feet so far. Doing something as absurd as  _ knitting _ would be like handing her a barrel of buckshot after wrapping his tongue around the length of her rifle. 

“T-this isn’t about impressing Beato! My pride as a man that I’ve built for almost two decades will be shattered into tiny pieces if I do that!”  _ Yes _ , the idea that Beato will give him weird looks might be a major factor here, but at the same time...

“If it’s that fragile, perhaps it’s not worth much in the first place?” There’s a sly smile on her face as she chuckles, her sleeve coming up to hide her laughter as his face turns red. Ah, it was useless, all useless! This road of conversation would only end up embarrassing him more. Which meant it was time to employ a tactic used by only the best politicians and businessmen: changing the subject. Whatever she was making was a subtle enough one; related tangentially to the topic, while shifting the heat off him not wanting to knit!

“What’s that supposed to be, anyways?” 

The witch seems to sense his intent, and simply gives another, more genuine smile before holding up her creation. The rows and columns of stitches form a simple rectangle. “A scarf. Perhaps I’ll give it to you, later.” 

“But it’s early October. It’s not nearly cold enough for one.” He’s still used to the comfortable twenty degrees Celsius of the island that seems to never get any colder, no matter how many nights he stays. 

Virgilia only responds with a knowing smile. “You promised you were going to return home after defeating the witch, didn’t you?” 

...Oh. He did, didn’t he? Somehow, the idea of him walking on the sidewalk, scarf pulled over his neck as he hears the crunch of leaves underneath his boots feels worlds away. 

 

* * *

The fourth game rolls around, and he finds himself avoiding Virgilia. It’s because she’s dangerous, he tells himself, and certainly not that he fell for her act, hook line and sinker, and feels as if he might combust if he shows his face to her. He’s not even entirely sure why he ends up approaching her, in the end. Perhaps it’s because he still feels the witch’s eyes looking into him, asking to dredge up a sin he doesn’t even remember. Or his sister’s blood, dripping down his back. 

Even after all that chaos, she’s still there, in the arbor. Drinking tea and knitting as if nothing has happened, the calm in the eye of a storm, some sort of anchor. One of the few reassuring constants in the realm of witches. That, and the ever-present aroma of tea she was pouring him.

“Chamomile. Good for stress,” she says, pushing the saucer of tea towards him. For half a second he pauses; she’s undoubtedly allied with Beato. The same Beato who wants nothing more than to end this game, who calmly watched as Ange was torn limb from limb. 

“.... _ Why _ ?” He growls, glaring down at the tea. “Why is she doing this?”

“Those are answers you’ll need to find on your own,” she says, her immediate answer breaking the veneer of a calm, thoughtful witch. “That child is not rampaging blindly, though it may look as such. She has a goal in mind.”

“What kind of goal? She keeps asking me about some weird sin that I didn’t even commit! And then she tells me I’m not even my dad’s kid!!! It’s…... _ why _ ! Why is she doing this?” The heat in his chest swells as he spits the words out to the witch, who just stays put and listens, not saying anything. He feels bad venting, but it’s something he  _ needs _ to get out, and Virgilia sounds like the kind of person who will listen. At the very least, he’s not saying something Beato doesn’t know.

When he finishes, red in the face almost panting for breath, it’s then that Virgilia finally speaks.“I would be lying if I did not agree with you. Her heart is...troubled.”

“Troubled?  _ Troubled? _ I’ve had friends who’re troubled at school, and they didn’t kill anybody, or laugh at people, or, or...”

“It does not excuse her actions, not by any stretch. But it does shed light onto why.” Her expression fixes distant on the horizon as her hands pause for one brief, critical moment. “If I had the chance, I would have changed that for her. I...failed, in that regard, as her mentor.”

Failed is an understatement. Failed is a word you use to describe an exam you flunked, not a synonym for the corpses of eighteen people. He only huffs, slamming his hands down on the table to pace around the gazebo, mulling over the games in his head. Trying to make sense of that innocent-looking Beato, her brains dashed on the rocks, and Ange. How the hell had she gone from that almost childlike soul to somebody who didn’t even blink as somebody had been torn to pieces in front of her?

Pace. Pace.

What kind of path did she tread that led her to that? It couldn’t  _ just _ be imprisonment. Yes, she needed to revive, but Shannon had already smashed that shrine for her, helping to restore her power. What kept her on the island? 

And did it really matter, in the end? 

“You’re going to wear a rut in the garden if you keep doing that,” Virgilia calls out helpfully from her spot at the table a moment later. 

“Beato can deal with it herself!” he shouts back. 

* * *

He doesn’t know how he’d become accustomed to the chaos of the meta world, with Beato’s taunting voice and the seven sisters’ constant bickering, but, somehow, it happened. The meta realm, like it or not, almost felt like home. It certainly didn’t help any that he still hadn’t fully moved into his new one back in Japan either physically or emotionally.

So here he was, sipping tea in a messed-up witches’ realm. Surrounded by demons as he drinks tea across from a witch who profanes the dead and living alike for some nefarious purpose he doesn’t even  _ know _ . 

And that’s the kicker, really. Because no matter how many times he watches her games, he still can’t figure out the  _ why _ . And now, he can’t even ask her. Beatrice, the Golden, Infinite Witch, is no longer truly alive. She breathes, her body is warm, but she does not speak. She doesn’t give that awful, vulgar laugh when he makes a bad move, nor does she give that anatomy-defying grin. 

Without her, it is quiet and unbearably lonely.

He’s going to kill her. He promised that to Ange. But whenever her body starts hunching over in pain, or panting, a stab of pain pierces his own heart. She shouldn’t be like this, reduced to some corrupted voodoo doll that reflects the state of the game. She should be alive, laughing in his face, grabbing his tie as she pulls him in to deliver some devastating counter. Throwing his blue truths at her now feels like kicking a shivering, rain-drenched mutt. 

_ I’m going to kill her _ , he repeats to himself. He’s going to find out how to kill her, and hold her close as the wedge pierces her chest. It’s not going to be like the last time, where her body had been stabbed dozens of times. It’s going to be quick. Painless. He’s not going to feel that lump in his throat like he does now, at the thought of ending her life. He’s not going to feel tears coming to his eyes like he does now, nor is he going to let out choked sobs. 

_ I’m going to kill her _ , he repeats to himself.  _ I’m going to kill her. It’s better than the alternative _ . 

He’s a mess. That’s the only way he can describe his body, hunched over, tears spilling into his tea. Neither witch at the table makes any comment on his miserable state, which in a way almost makes it worse. Beato should be laughing at him, or licking the tears from his face, or something!

His face is so hot from crying that he doesn’t even notice Virgilia gently resting a blanket over him until he feels the weight settle on his shoulders. She rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, some sort of wordless gesture that regardless of what happens, she is here. He’s mostly just glad it’s just her right now; there’s little doubt that if Erika walked in now, she’d tear him to shreds. That was one of the good things about Beato, at least. Even if she was, coarse, and rude, and every other word under the sun, she wouldn’t bring it up later. 

He slowly lowers his head, still in his arms, to the table, pushing the saucer out of the way to rest his cheek on the cold stone as the blanket envelops his body. He’s not sure how long he stays like that, but it feels good when he finally picks up his head and blinks warily in the light again. 

When he does, Beato is staring blankly at him again. 

Her gaze hasn’t moved a centimeter since he’d last made eye contact, her glassy eyes transfixed at some spot on the horizon that he can’t see. There’s a pang in his heart as he  _ knows _ that the image reflected in those eyes is the image of her, body impaled countless times by electric-blue truths, her soul finally released from the gameboard.

He closes his eyes again and sighs. “I don’t want to think about this for a couple hours.” The stress of the games, amplified by the new gamemasters, is like a vice squeezing his chest and heart. He doesn’t want reminders that somebody else has taken control of  _ their _ game.

“If you want something to take your mind off things, I’m sure that Beato would like it if you did something for her,” she says, glancing over to the pallid figure sitting across from him. “Even though she’s in this state, she’s still aware enough to appreciate a small gesture.”

“...Something?” 

“Like cooking for her, or making her a trinket.” Beato was used to eating only the finest morsels prepared by demons with thousands of years of experience in the kitchen. He’d never be able to match anything Ronove did. And he doesn’t even know how to make things for her! There was whittling or something like that, but he didn’t know how, and doubted any of the demons did, either. 

After a moment, his gaze rests on Virgilia again, then, back to Beato. 

He’ll kill her soon. The least he can do is make her remaining time better, right? 

Virgilia catches one of his glances in her direction, and smiles. “If you want to learn, just say the word.”

Virgilia reaches for him and takes his hands in hers, adjusting his grip on the needles. 

 

It takes a couple tries to start, to say the least. He had no idea that a granny hobby could be so  _ complicated _ . You had to get your needles a certain way, and move the yarn just so in order to make it even look like something that wasn’t a clump of thread. On top of that, you have to keep track of how many stitches were in each row, or risk it getting messed up!

When all is done, he has a barely passable choker for her, similar to the one she now wears upon her neck, but a centimeter or two thicker and a good deal lumpier. He’d be lying if he said it was readily recognizable as something that was to fit upon somebody’s neck. 

“I have something for you, Beato,” he whispers, bringing a hand up to her face and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He holds up the misshapen mass of yarn to her neck. Even though she’s no more than a doll, there’s a seeping warmth in her skin that heats his fingers as they guide the choker around her neck. 

Her neck tilts up just a little to accommodate him. The movement is barely noticeable, but it means the world. Even though it’s only a little bit of her old self piercing the veil back to him, it’s a piece nonetheless. He sees it in her eyes, too; for barely a fraction of a second, they clear, her piercing look returning to gaze at him for barely a second as he feels his heart skip a beat. 

* * *

Creating one’s own gameboard was easier said than done. There is characterization to worry about, mysteries to write, and above all, some sort of method to show to the world that he truly has understood Beatrice’s heart. 

It had taken a good day or so paging through the Ars Goetia before settling on adding Zepar and Furfur, twin demons of love, to the cast. Symbolically, they worked, but as far as his feelings...he’d winced a little at having to shelve the summoning circles of a half-dozen with nice…. _ ahem… _ ...proportions. But that was fine! It was for Beato, and Beato would never let him hear the end of it if he’d done that. She  _ will _ never let him hear the end of it, if his magic works. 

He wants to see the shocked look on her face as she reads through it. But first, he has to finish it, which requires time, and thought. 

The magic process was largely a hands-off one; he’d just summon his power and mentally or verbally direct the script. So he’d been practicing knitting a little as he’d worked, clacking the needles together to make something for Beato when she revived. She’d like something like that, some small token to make her face light up.

Except the process had failed. Instead of Beato, he’d created something that was her, but only in image. The chick version of her...he knew what she’d gone through to become the thousand-year-old witch. Knew that his words had caused her heart to be torn to shreds by the thorns of love slowly growing inside. It’s not a fate he would wish for anybody, least of all the poor chick who shares her face. Even though every time he looks at her he feels a twang of sadness, he knows it’s nothing compared to what she felt during those six painful years. 

She didn’t deserve to be wedged between the spectre of a dead woman shrouding her every move and treading down a millennia-old path that would slowly whittle away at her heart with every step. Even though the desire to please him was carved into her soul, if she were to trudge that path alone, he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

So there’s only one path forwards, really. Honor and accept his role as her guardian, and care for her like a father, while betting on the one-in-a-quadrillion shot she’ll revive to all her former glory. 

Except he’d barely even  _ met _ her and already screwed it up. She’d gone through the trouble to make those cookies for him-butter cookies, one of his favorites-and he’d taken that affection and crushed it beneath his boots. She was just following the role the old Beato gave her. The old her would’ve just  _ laughed _ , handed him a collar, and ordered him to lick her shoes clean if he’d ever dumped her cookies in the trash. But he could give the chick version of her the most half hearted, insincere apology on the planet and she’d swallow it whole with a smile on her face.

But she’s Beatrice, and Beatrice at least deserves some sort of heartfelt apology. Something that shows her that he took the time to mull over her feelings, preferably while wallowing in a well of guilt and remorse. 

 

Beatrice gives an ever-so-slightly-awkward smile as he steps over Natsuhi’s corpse to hand her a pair of soft, misshapen lumps. It had taken a couple tries to do them, but he’d finally figured out how to do circles. 

“Ah. It’s a very nice…….hat,” she says, an audible pause in the middle as she slowly holds them up, trying to ascertain what exactly Battler had brought her as he awkwardly rubs his head. 

“...They’re socks,” he fills in after a pregnant pause as he gestures to them. They are not particularly nice-looking socks, but they fulfill the basic requirements: vaguely shaped like a cylinder, with a hole for a foot.

“Ah! I see now! They’re very soft.” She gives him the type of smile that the old Beato would never have let slip across her lips as she rubs the fabric across her cheek. “Thank you, Battler.”

There’s a softness to that smile that he’d never seen on the witch before, a gentleness that makes him almost ashamed to look her in the eyes as they drift towards the floor. 

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he mutters.

“N-no, it’s my fault. I didn’t listen to your orders and left my room, fath-I mean, Battler.” 

“It’s fine. Call me whatever you want.” No matter what she calls him, she’ll always see him as the one who called her into being. Even despite this, his heart leaps when the word  _ Battler _ leaves her lips. Even though there’s no venom in her words, no familiar mocking as she draws out the last part of his name. 

It barely takes a breath for him to tell her that, but her eyes shine as he does, the gleam of joy reflected in them worth all the hours spent hunched over with a pair of needles in his hands a hundred times over.

As the demons bound off to check the corpse he’d left them, he catches Beato slipping the pair over her hands, a thumb threading itself through the thick stitches so that they’re more like mittens than anything else.

In hindsight, large, fluffy socks probably would not have fit her shoes, anyways. Even so, she seems to like them, which is what really matters, in the end. 

* * *

When Virgilia had told Battler that Beato wouldn’t judge him for knitting, he wasn’t entirely sure. But now, with the knowledge of her heart, he could say she wouldn’t judge with an absolute certainty that rivaled Lambdadelta’s.

However, that didn’t mean she wasn’t  _ extremely nosy _ about it, just like the type of friend who’d recommend you a book or an anime and would ask constantly if you’d finished it yet (a crime he was quite guilty of himself, judging from all the unread books now piled up on Beato’s nightstand). 

“So, Battleeer……...” she’d started, resting her soft, warm body against him. Exploiting his one weakness of having a soft head on his shoulder, gently nuzzling his neck…! “What are you making? Is it for meeee?”

“Ange. I want to give her something after the final game.” There weren’t many things somebody could make that he wouldn’t screw up somehow and would fit both a six and eighteen-year-old. Most clothing items were out of the question, leaving only a couple things via process of elimination, until he’d finally settled on two things: a scarf, and a pair of those hair clips she’d always wore. The latter was getting worn, anyways! And she’d probably never replace the aging elastic until it snapped-or until she got a similar present from her brother.

He’d had to figure out how to use tiny stitches for the hair clips, but hopefully she would like them. If they were attached via a simple lark’s head knot instead of glue, she could wash them! And replace the elastic! 

Beato puffs her cheeks a little, and he can’t help but plant a kiss square on her forehead. The percentage of his finished works that went to her would make any investor green with envy, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t constantly pestering him over what he was making whenever she spotted a new work in progress, typically a little too close to the razor-tipped needles for comfort. 

“...Beato, uh. If you’re standing there, I might accidentally poke you.”

“I used to do this a lot with Teacher when I was younger, and  _ she _ never stabbed me.” Ah, ah. He can see the  _ ‘I want to spend time with you’ _ hidden beneath her words, clear as day now. And besides, he can heal an accidental poke or two, with either magic or a kiss, ihihihi. It takes a minute for him to adjust for maximum wife-husband shoulder contact, but it’s worth it as Beato wiggles her way onto a comfortable spot on his shoulder. 

“So you none of you know how to knit?” He’s knitting an orb. There are not many ways to knit an orb. He figures that if she doesn't know what an orb-in-progress looks like, she is not particularly familiar with the hobby. Beato pauses for a second; he doesn’t need to elaborate on why he used the plural before she replies. 

“She preferred to read during breaks. Kumasawa would knit her whatever she wanted, so she really didn’t see much a point to it. Shannon and Kanon should be able to sew, though.” He gives a small smile at that; Beato’s words stir up memories of old parent-teacher conferences, of very polite letters that more or less all said ‘ _ While we appreciate his appetite for books, Mister Ushiromiya simply cannot keep reading them under his desk in class, and we will be forced to confiscate them if this behavior continues. _ ’ Or something like that. On the plus side, he was on a first-name basis with all the librarians. 

“You didn’t get sewing?” It feels a tad awkward, phrasing such a thing the same way you’d talk about a kid getting their parent’s hair, even if it was scarily accurate. 

“Muuuu, I’m a thousand year old witch! I don’t  _ need _ to know how to sew when Ronove or Virgilia can do it for me.” 

Spoiled, as always. He tries to get her with another kiss, which turns quickly into more of a nuzzle due to the angle. Which, in turn, turns into her sliding up closer to him, sabotaging his rhythm of knit-purl-knit as her body settles closer to his hands. 

He’s more than happy to relax as he feels her weight on him, even with the threat of a sore shoulder later looming over him. But right now, right now she’s here, breath creasting on his neck, her warm body cuddled up close to him with absolutely no intention of moving. Snuggling was one of those weird romance tropes he’d seen countless times in books that he’d never really  _ gotten _ until he’d spent hours snuggled up to her, her company and warmth washing away everything else.

He sneaks a glance over at her a bit later and finds her eyes closed, his shoulder turned into a makeshift pillow.   


He was going to be here for a while, it seemed. 

* * *

It’s getting late, and the October air-no, it’s past midnight, it must be November now-nips at Tohya’s face as Kotobuki opens the door to outside the Fukuin House. As he glances at her face, he remembers liking cold a lot more as Ushiromiya Battler, back before the rims of his wheelchair would cramp his hands from the cold if he was forced to be outside for too long. 

Battler would’ve felt a pang of sadness at the sight of the location where so many of his relatives died. But he is not Battler, not anymore. The sight of the manor brings surprise to his mind, but no nostalgia, or anything Battler would have felt. 

Even despite that, somehow, visiting there feels as if it has lifted some sort of heavy burden from his shoulders. The life and death of Battler Ushiromiya is no longer the sword of Damocles, idly swinging above his head, weighing down his every thought. He hopes the feeling sticks. No more nights where he wakes up to distant memories, or phrases he’s never heard before popping into his head. Maybe, now, he’ll have some semblance of peace. He closes his eyes, and moves his hands to his arms to fend off the chilly breeze cutting through his clothes after making a motion for Ikuko to wheel him to the car. As she does, he feels a surprisingly warm hand on his shoulder, and glances in its direction. 

It’s Kotobuki, with something in her free hand. 

“Here,” she says, offering that something to him in her arms. It takes a moment for his brain to piece together what it is, entirely on account of how ancient it looks. But there’s only really one object something shaped like this could be; a scarf. Most of the color has since been bleached out by the sun’s rays, the ends frayed beyond recognition. 

“Battler gave this to me a long time ago,” she says, some gleam of ages-old nostalgia in her voice. “I think it’s time I give it back.”

It’s...old, and Tohya isn’t quite sure he remembers giving it to her, though he could always be wrong; Battler’s memory isn’t infallible, especially in light of how utterly chaotic it was once his 18th birthday rolled around and he had to move back in with Rudolf. A scarf slipping through the gaps in his memory wouldn’t be surprising. 

Tohya doesn’t  _ need _ a scarf; while writing as a profession doesn’t saddle him with nearly the amount of money Battler had, the royalties from their stories are more than enough to lead a comfortable life. As a result, the two of them have more than enough clothes. They’re just clothes, after all. He’s got no attachment to his hat, or his suits-both himself and Ikuko would rather wear something comfortable than something professional. 

But, on the other hand, the family he lost was not really  _ his _ . It was Battler’s. Even if he did have mementoes of Kyrie or Rudolf, they’re not his. He’ll feel sad about their loss, but he won’t grieve, won’t mourn like Ange did. 

The scarf probably gave her some faint hope that somebody,  _ anybody _ besides Eva had survived. And now that her wish has been granted, it’s nothing more than a fancy pile of string, much like how her billions of yen was nothing more than colorful slips of confetti. 

If it had emotional value to Ange, it’s the least he can do to take it in Battler’s place. He leans forwards to invite her to drape it over his head, and makes sure to securely tuck it into his jacket once her hands leave his shoulders, a precaution against it getting caught in the spokes, before bidding her farewell.

 

The two of them keep in touch with Kotobuki in the months following. A fax here, an email there. Occasionally, an advance copy of something in the mail. Physical meetings happen rarely, but when they do and the weather permits, he always wears the scarf. 

It’s strange, really. Because for some reason, it’s the only thing in the house Bern will not cover in fur. 


End file.
